


like marbles on glass

by wreathed



Category: Fleabag (TV)
Genre: F/M, Ficlet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-09
Updated: 2019-04-09
Packaged: 2020-01-07 03:20:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18402056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wreathed/pseuds/wreathed
Summary: The whole love thing, though. That wasn’t to be thought about.





	like marbles on glass

It had been fun, at first: reading the bible in the bath, analysing the art, the new, exotic terminology; a new world, with history, and finding out how he fitted into it. She had searched online for the names of all the parts of a church building and they ran through her mind as fantasy locations of seduction, following on from each other like tube stations. They could fuck in the _narthex_ , then the _transept_ , then the _apse_. He could fuck her while wearing a _chasuble_ or a _cassock_ or a _ferraiolo_. She went to his sermons and imagined the church empty, her legs spread on a pew, and him kneeling on one of those cushions with needlepoint crucifixes on (a _hassock_ ) and filling her cunt with his tongue, the obscene sound of their flesh and her heavy breaths echoing around the old stone walls.

The whole love thing, though. That wasn’t to be thought about.

*

It was all of that. It still is. It used to be _only_ all of that: celibate authority, guidance and a kindred spirit and someone who was guaranteed to never give into her and so would be saved from having a ruined life.

Until she saw his face from her knees in the confessional, dark and twisted in the pain of impossible adoration, and she realised he would give in but that it wouldn’t be her fault. They were going to have sex, and it was going to be transcendent, but she wouldn’t be the reason why he leaves. And she never considers stopping it before it starts, even for a moment.

*

She had thought about the narthex and the transept and the apse like she had thought about his arms and his eyes and his thighs (him, huge, coming inside her, his tongue and elegant fingers, and how _eager_ and _grateful_ he would be to see her naked body, to please her).

She had also thought about them getting a cottage.

She didn’t want to give up the café, nor has she ever lived anywhere but London. But she didn’t live like how those with a more sedate, love-filled live did. Maybe that was another sign it could never be real.

They would have a cottage, and she must have got confused somewhere along the way because he was still wearing the collar – couldn’t he become an Anglican for her; what’s a little transubstantiation between friends? Anyway, there’s a cottage and flowers in the garden and children. All that shit. All of that.

That’s not what she wants.

*

“Do you wank,” she asks in the morning. He’s naked in her bed. He looks like an ordinary person, except she can’t take her eyes off him.

“I’m not some curio,” he says. “I’m a human man and this is my life and, yes, of course I wank. It just comes out in the middle of the night if you don’t, anyway.”

“Do you say sorry afterwards,” she says. “Do you pray your apologies for remaining unfaithful to Him, for spilling life—”

“If I felt _that_ guilty just from that,” he sighs, “we probably wouldn’t be where we are now.”

It’s crass false hope. He kisses her, open-mouthed, even though it’s the morning and they’ve had their sex now and he’s about to officiate her father’s wedding, and she feels the hot pulse of her cunt not quite drown out the desperate ache in her brain.

“I thought you’d been sent to tempt me,” he says with a hollow laugh. “But, no. You’re your own thing. Not even the devil could tell you what to do.”

“I did what you told me to do,” she says. “I’ll do whatever you tell me to do. But I’ll be alright in the end.”

*

And it took a long time, but she was.


End file.
